Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Katya
Iwas still trying to decide whether the bottled water in Alexandra Kim’s office was Evian, Fiji, or melted diamonds when she leaned forward with a smile so polished it nearly blinded me.
“Congratulations, Katya,” she said, reaching across the sleek marble desk to shake my hand. “You’ve officially signed with William Morris. I promise you won’t regret it.”
Her grip was firm. Confident. A handshake that made you feel you were about to become someone bigger than yourself.
I managed a smile—stunned. “Thank you. Honestly, I still can’t believe this is happening.”
Alexandra’s laugh was crisp and light, the kind of laugh people have when they already know how the story ends.
“Oh, believe it. You’ve got the story, the face, the edge—and after that video of you performing at the New York punk festival went viral?
Half of Hollywood wants to date you. The other half wants to represent you. ”
She sat back, crossing one long leg over the other.
“Here’s what we’re doing, Katya. First: interviews.
Rolling Stone, Variety, GQ, and I’ve got The New Yorker circling.
Then we’ll hit the late night shows—Kimmel, Fallon, maybe even Colbert, if I push.
We’ll time that around your next drop, so it feels fresh.
I’m also putting in a call to SNL, just in case they’re brave enough to book someone with actual opinions. ”
I blinked. “Wait—Saturday Night Live?”
She grinned. “You think too small, darling. Not anymore.”
My brain was doing backflips. I hadn’t even picked a name for the band yet and suddenly I was being slotted into the late-night circuit like it was a dentist appointment.
She rattled off some more: international press, a documentary producer in talks, some Swedish podcast I’d never heard of but apparently had millions of listeners. At some point she mentioned Glastonbury and Coachella like they were little backyard shows someone’s cousin had invited me to.
I could barely keep up.
And yet, I loved it. All of it.
This was what I wanted. Right? Not just to scream into the void—but to be heard.
Alexandra paused, giving me a chance to breathe. “So,” she said, tapping her pen against a lavender leather notebook, “what’s next on the music front? You thinking solo, or…?”
“I’m putting a band together,” I blurted. “Already started, actually. I’ve got a drummer I trust in Brooklyn and this girl from Atlanta who plays bass like she’s summoning thunder. I want the sound to be raw. Political, but danceable. You know?”
“Like a protest you can grind to?”
“Exactly.”
Alexandra nodded, scribbling something. “That’s hot. Very marketable. So—here’s the question that’ll define our next six months.” She looked up at me with laser focus. “Are you staying in New York, or moving to LA?”
I hesitated, caught off-guard. “Why does that matter?”
She gave me a look that was half pity, half mentor-mode.
“Katya, this is the epicenter. The press, the labels, the execs, the producers—you need to be in the room where the handshakes happen. At least for a while. I can fly you out, sure, but if you’re here, present, we can build something real. Big. Permanent.”
Her words rattled around in my chest. I swallowed, glanced out the massive window behind her. LA shimmered like a hallucination—blue skies, silver glass, the quiet whisper of promise.
And yet… all I could see was Charlotte’s apartment. That soft light in the living room. Her books stacked neatly on the coffee table. The faint smell of her perfume clinging to my scarf.
She’d offered to let me move in with her. After everything, she still wanted me in her space. Her life.
But I hadn’t said yes.
Something kept stopping me. Pride? Fear? That low, gnawing whisper that maybe, if I stepped too close, I’d lose myself in her world instead of building mine?
“I’m… not sure yet,” I admitted.
Alexandra raised a perfectly shaped brow. “Well, figure it out fast. I need to know where to send the press kits.”
I nodded slowly, trying to hide how rattled I felt. “I’ll get back to you ASAP.”
“Do that,” she said, standing. “And Katya?”
I looked up.
“You’ve really got something. Don’t waste it standing still.”
We shook hands again, and then I was wandering out of her office, through a corridor that smelled like citrus and success. It looked like someone airbrushed all the receptionists at birth. The elevators gleamed. Outside, LA slapped me in the face with the sun.
I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the William Morris building and stepped into the golden light.
My phone pinged.
I pulled it from my pocket, shielding the screen from the sun. It was a message from Charlotte.
Change of plans. Can you fly to D.C. instead of home to New York? I’ve got a national TV interview and I could really use some support. From there, we can drive to my family’s home in Richmond for the wedding.
I stood there for a long moment, reading it again and again.
The city buzzed around me. Car horns. Laughter. Breezy salt-water laced wind.
But all I could hear was her voice in my head, soft and unsure.
And just like that, LA felt a little less certain.
The blast of cool airport air hit me as I stepped off the plane and into the terminal at Dulles. It was way too early for humans to be conscious, let alone emotionally functional, but I was scanning the crowd before I even cleared the gate.
And then I saw Charlotte in jeans, a navy blazer over a pale sweater, and her hair was down for once. No security, no aides, no trace of the diplomatic armor she usually wore like skin.
Just her.
We both smiled, stupidly soft, and walked straight into each other’s arms without a word. Her body was warm, familiar, and I felt something in my chest unlock the moment she wrapped her arms around me.
“I missed you,” she murmured into my hair.
“I missed you more,” I whispered back.
It wasn’t romantic, exactly. Not dramatic or swoony. It was something else. Something deeper. Like coming home to a place I wasn’t sure I was allowed to want.
We separated reluctantly and headed toward baggage claim, rolling through small talk—how was the flight, how’s LA? Did you sleep, not really, you? God no.
I was too jet-lagged to even feel hunger until Charlotte asked, “Have you eaten yet?”
“Not unless two Oreos on the plane count.”
“Come on,” she said, tugging me toward a small café tucked behind a Hudson News. “We’ve got time.”
We grabbed a couple of bagels—hers plain with cream cheese, mine, everything with whatever they could cram on it—and hurried out to the parking garage, our breaths curling in the chilled air.
I was expecting another sleek black SUV, dark windows, a faceless driver who would pretend not to hear anything we said.
Instead, Charlotte led me to a cherry-red sports car parked by itself near the exit, gleaming even under the dim fluorescents.
I stopped. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with Ambassador Tyler?”
Charlotte smirked as she popped the trunk. “It’s a rental. Figured I could have a little fun while I still can.”
“Where’s your security detail?”
She looked at me over the roof of the car, her expression unreadable. “Let’s just say… I’m not sure I’ll be getting more free security after today.”
I stared at her, but she was already turning away, helping me toss my suitcase into the trunk like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb.
Right. Okay. I said nothing, climbed in, and let the engine’s purr fill the silence. Perhaps now wasn’t the time to address where I would be living soon.
We hit the highway just as the sun started stretching its fingers across the horizon. The roads were ghostly quiet, like the city was still under a spell.
It took a minute, but then I remembered—Sunday morning. Seven-thirty. All the sane people were still asleep.
We flew down I-66. The radio played low jazz, and Charlotte didn’t speak much. Her jaw was tense, her hands tight on the wheel. Not like her at all.
The closer we got to downtown, the more the skyline unfurled itself for me—slow, stately, a stretch of marble bones and power. I’d seen pictures, obviously. Watched it on TV. But nothing really prepared me for the real thing.
There it was. The Capitol, the Washington Monument, and the White House, all gleaming arrogance behind its fence. The kind of buildings that didn’t apologize for anything.
“Nice monuments,” I muttered. “Too bad they belong to a government that’s completely full of shit.”
Charlotte didn’t say a word.
I glanced at her, but her eyes were forward, focused, like every part of her was trying not to crack.
We wound through a few quiet turns until she pulled into a lot near a squat gray building I didn’t recognize. She didn’t say what it was, and I didn’t ask.
She put the car in park, but didn’t reach for the door.
Instead, she turned to me.
Took my hand.
Her fingers were colder than they should’ve been.
“I’ve never been so frightened in my life,” she said.
I bit my lip, refusing to ask why, but knowing whatever it was, I’d be there for her.